Please Have Snow and Mistletoe
by Call Me Babykins
Summary: They may not have a tree, or presents, or snow, but Dean is bound and determined that Sam not have to suffer through one more bleak, miserably forgettable Christmas. Established Wincest. Entry in Justine Samulet Delarge's (deanplease) Winter Wincest contest.
1. Disclaimer

This fic was written for Justine Samulet Delarge's (deanplease) Winter Wincest contest. Don't ask my why I haven't posted it before this because I have no idea.

The following is intended for mature audiences. Discretion is advised. Contains docking and sexual acts with a minor. Includes explicit profanity and mild verbal abuse.

Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke. Cover image is my edit, though the original picture does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 1

Sam and Dean Winchester had experienced one perfect Christmas in their short lives.

It had happened when Dean was nearly thirteen and Sam was nine; they stopped in Sioux Falls to borrow one of Bobby's books and ended up staying for the entire holiday. It had been a chance event—there was no way John would have intentionally allowed them to be snowed in at Bobby's—but it was perfect nonetheless. The snow in Sioux Falls turned the salvage yard into a series of charming white hillocks and Bobby's house into a cozy haven full of firelight and the smell of the pine tree in the living room.

Sam and Dean hung slightly misshapen red felt stockings, pulled out of the attic along with the dusty Christmas ornaments, above the hearth. Bobby kept a pot of water full of orange peels and cinnamon simmering on a back stove burner, making the whole house smell sweet and tangy. And on Christmas Eve Bobby even dressed as Santa—though, granted, that simply involved exchanging his trucker cap for a cheap Santa hat and parading about in a set of red and green plaid flannel pajamas and suspenders printed with gold jingle bells to keep the pillow stuffed into his pajama shirt from falling out. That night the boys had fallen asleep side by side beneath the lights of the Christmas tree, full of hot chocolate and marshmallows, surrounded by the fuzzy melody of a Bing Crosby vinyl.

Christmas morning they had woken to find themselves snuggled up together beneath one of Karen's homemade quilts that had not seen the light of day in the boys' lifetimes, partially buried beneath a modest collection of gifts, piled precariously around them as they slept. The gifts were humble—mostly useful presents: gun oil and protective talismans—but each was neatly wrapped and marked "from: Santa" and each of the boys had an orange in the toe of their stocking. They had a real Christmas dinner that year, complete with two types of pie.

But that was five—almost six—Christmases ago. Each of the five Christmases since had been held up against the perfect Christmas; each fell woefully short.

The prospect of the upcoming Christmas looked to be one of the lowest in those six years.

Dean obediently took his duffel from the Impala's trunk into the Auburndale, Florida hotel room. Sam, however, remained standing by the car, watching as John and Dean trekked back and forth between the car and hotel.

"Sam, hop to it," John barked.

Sam turned a slow glare on his father. "How long are we going to stay here?"

John paused, a duffel swung over his shoulder. "As long as the job takes. You know that."

"Yeah, but how long?"

"Why do you care?"

Dean cringed, hanging back. There were only five more days before Christmas and John had obviously forgotten his promise, made under the influence of heavily alcoholic peppermint eggnog Christmas Eve the year before, that they would have a real Christmas this year, which for Sam meant snow at the very least.

"It's almost Christmas, Dad!"

"And?"

"You swore we'd have snow this year and a _real_ Christmas!"

John voice became sharp. "We have more important things going on right now, Sam. We'll find you some snow in a few weeks."

"You're a fucking liar!"

"Samuel Winchester, you watch your mouth!"

But Sam had already turned; he was already gone. He didn't come back for so long that Dean was afraid John might go out looking for him. Sam had grown so volatile in the last few months that if John went looking the only possible result was a physical fight and Sam had started carrying a skinning knife strapped to his leg at all times. Dean had no desire to stitch them both back up in the aftermath. Even if John sent him out after Sam, Dean was not sure that he could convince Sam to come back without one of them sustaining major injuries.

In the end, Sam came back before it was even really dark. He was silent for the rest of the evening. He retreated to their shared bed early and slept turned away from Dean.

He was gone by the time Dean woke up the next morning, no doubt scouting out the local library.

Dean lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, until John left. In a way, he was as angry at John as Sam. Christmas itself was not as important to him, but so much depended on this Christmas going well for Sam. Dean had been planning for months, and the idea had started before Christmas the year before.

The only thing Sam had asked for that year was a better Christmas the next—one with snow—and Dean had decided that Sam should have one more perfect Christmas while he was still young enough to enjoy them.

Dean meant this Christmas to be special. Maybe not as warm and homey as their Christmas at Bobby's—because Dean had no idea where to get the trappings that had made it so: the stockings, the musty ornaments, one of Karen's quilts—but it was meant to be special. With snow.

Of course, when Dean was completely honest, the plan was not wholly unselfish. He and Sam had begun growing into something new right before Sam hit this petulant stage. It was just little exploratory touches and a few chaste kisses when John was gone or the lights were out, but lately Dean had grown cautious. Sam was angry so often now. He was as likely to tell Dean to fuck off as he was to shove him against the mattress and rut against him until they were both sticky and breathless. Dean wanted so much more.

If anything had a chance of turning Sam's mood, bringing him back to Dean, happy to touch and be touched, but much more importantly really happy, it was Christmas.

Dean had hoped John would follow through on his promise that they would stay somewhere with snow, but he had come up with a couple alternatives. He had too much experience with John's promises.

There was a FedEx store just down the street—Dean had caught a glimpse of it as they drove into town. He'd hit there first and then check out the nearby gas station and dollar store. With any sort of luck, he should find everything he needed and be back in time to set up before Sam got back.

He had to lay the charm on pretty thick to get the FedEx lady to sell to him, the tree he ended up with was really an aluminum centerpiece, and he had to steal a fan from the hotel lobby because no one was selling fans this late in December, but Dean made it back in record time.

Dean turned the air conditioner on first thing; he needed plenty of time for it to get cold before Sam came back. He dragged the round, wobbly table into the center of the room and put the aluminum tree on it. He hung tinsel in loops on the walls and set the lobby fan in one of the corners. It would not look like real snow, but Dean prayed Sam would appreciate it as he layered the blades of the ceiling fan with white Styrofoam packing peanuts and dumped the rest of them in drifts on the floor.

He debated about hanging the mistletoe. It had been a chance find—the last one at the dollar store—but in the end, Dean hung it in plain sight. If Sam wanted to use it, he would, otherwise they could both pretend it wasn't there.

Dean turned on the fan on the floor, oscillating so that it blew the packing peanuts over the threadbare carpeting, and switched on the bedside lamp.

It was freezing in the hotel room by the time Sam finally came back. Dean found himself surprisingly grateful for the woolen hat and gloves he had picked up to complete the effect.

Sam walked in and switched on the overhead light, starting the fan. Styrofoam peanuts began drifting down from the blades. If you squinted, it almost did look like the hotel room was full of snow.

"Sam, where're your gloves? You'll catch cold like this." Dean felt like an idiot saying the words and hoping Sam would play along, but Sam didn't protest as Dean wrapped a thick scarf around his neck and put a beanie and gloves on him, staring at the Styrofoam snow that fluttered around the room.

"What is this?"

Dean swallowed hard. "I'm sorry I couldn't get you any real snow, Sammy."

Then Sam grinned and, fuck, his smile was everything Dean had ever needed. He leaned in to kiss one of Sam's dimples reverently.

"I just wanted to give you Christmas."

Sam turned and kissed him, lingering. Both of their noses were cold. "It's perfect, Dean."

In the end, they didn't need the mistletoe. Sam drew the chain on the hotel door and dragged Dean to their shared bed.

They wriggled down under the blankets—it really was cold—and snuggled close to each other. Dean moved slowly, purposefully. He was determined to go as far as Sam would let him. He plied Sam's mouth with his tongue, tasting something cinnamon-y he had eaten, running his fingers through Sam's hair to angle the kiss, drawing Sam closer, kissing him more deeply.

Dean jumped when Sam went for his belt.

"What?" Sam smirked. "You thought you were the only one who wanted this?"

Dean grinned. They pressed together, rubbing, touching each other gently, as if they had never done this before, as if everything was new.

Eventually Dean got up and turned on the heater, kicking off his jeans fully. He turned back to the bed and watched appreciatively as Sam stripped off his clothes.

"What?" Sam's voice was petulant, but he was still smiling that smile—that smile that only Dean gave him.

"You're so pretty, Sammy."

Sam blushed, flushing red and hot all the way down to his collarbone. "Don't be an ass, Dean."

Dean got on the bed, walking up to Sam on his knees. He lifted Sam's face, making sure Sam could see the truth in his face. "I mean it. You're beautiful."

He drew Sam up to his knees and pressed against him, grinding slowly, pressing their cocks together between them. Sam clutched his arms, digging his nails in and hissing at the sensation.

Dean laid a trail of kisses down Sam's jaw, to his ear, and then to the hot skin of his shoulder, as he reached between them to jack them together.

"Dean!" Sam gasped.

"'s okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, drawing his thumb over the sensitive head of Sam's cock.

He intended to ask permission. He'd wanted to try this for a while, knowing Sam was uncircumcised, but they had never got this far. He intended to ask permission, but looking at Sam's flushed face and feeling the searing heat of his body against him, Dean knew he didn't have to.

Dean stroked Sam's cock slowly, allowing the foreskin to slip all the way up before drawing it back down again. Precome beaded there, slick on the taut skin. Dean angled the tip of his own cock, pressing it against Sam's, and then drew Sam's foreskin up again, over the head of his own cock.

Dean gasped at the tightness as Sam's foreskin closed over the head of his cock; Sam's hips twitched forward and he moaned.

"F-fuck, _Dean_,"

Dean had not anticipated the intensity of the sensation, his cock pressed tight and _hot_ against Sam's, inside Sam, a part of Sam. He stroked them—one hand on himself and the other on Sam, holding them together and increasing the friction—moaning in unison with Sam.

"Feels so good, Sammy." He whispered.

Sam pressed his forehead, slick with sweat, against Dean's shoulder, arms wrapped around Dean, trembling. "Love you, Dean,"

And Dean came, the surge breaking the seal on his cock, it slid out of Sam's foreskin slowly, the sensation making Dean shiver. He felt his own come against him for a moment and then Sam jerked away, his own orgasm ripping through him.

Dean leaned heavily against Sam, working them both until they were spent, panting against each other, sticky with their release. They collapsed onto the bed and snuggled under the quilt, Sam's head tucked beneath Dean's chin and arms wrapped around each other just the way they had slept beneath Bobby's tree on their last perfect Christmas.

Dean did not know what to say, didn't know how to return Sam's sentiment without sounding trite and girly, didn't know whether he should recommend that they go clean up or demand that they stay warm in bed forever. But, in the end, he didn't need to say anything: it was Sam who broke the silence.

"Merry Christmas," He whispered the words against Dean's chest, so low that they were nearly inaudible and all the more intimate for that.

Dean, suddenly fighting back tears that had seemingly come from nowhere, kissed Sam's forehead and returned, "Merry Christmas, Sam."


End file.
